gone
by Freak-show101
Summary: You welcome the act of violence—you embrace the act of hatred. You welcome it, because you know it's no where enough, compared to the ones you had inflicted on her.


**Date:** 08/12/2012

**Pairing: **SasuSaku

**Genre:** General/Angst/Romance

**Status:** Complete

**Author's Note: **Experimenting. Yes. Hi. Bye.

* * *

She sat there—in the middle of your bed. You watch as she leans her fragile form against the wooden bed frame. She reaches out a hand to her right. Her fingers linger on the cigarette box for a while—almost hesitantly, and you know she is stalling. Her eyebrows furrow into a frown, and it seems that she has made up her mind—she takes a cigarette and places it in between her lips. With a red Zippo lighter already in hand, she lights up the tip.

At first glance, she looks fine. She looks fine to you—almost, because the corners of her lips twitch upwards to a smile. She shakes her head and she giggles to herself. She knows you are watching—she is aware of it—aware of your observant eyes, and that is why she puts on her best façade. She wants to delude herself into thinking that you didn't know any better. You know she is laughing because she hates to cry in your presence. When she places the cancer stick in her mouth and sucks in the smoke, you caught her shuddering underneath your intense gaze.

You take a step forward, and you stop yourself when she flinched. Your heart sinks. The familiar feeling of angst that you forcibly suppressed emerges back up. You open your mouth to speak but your voice betrays you. You want to apologize, yet you couldn't bring yourself to do so. You want to run over to her and comfort her—you want to embrace her. You want to bury your face into the crook of her neck—you want to feel her under you. You want to give the security she desperately needs, you want to be the one to tell her, 'Dear, everything will be fine.' You want to do all the above, but there's this other side of you who wants the complete opposite. So you stay still, motionless. Contemplating. Conflicted.

You look at the ceiling for a moment. You shift your eyes back to her and you grit your teeth in frustration.

She remains silent and you don't trust your voice to speak. It was eerily silent. Dreadful, you feel—the silence is eating you up inside. You stare at her, long and hard—wishing, hoping that she would turn her head to meet your pleading eyes. Unfortunately for you, she knows you too well. She knows you too well and you know her too well—but it didn't stop your heart from breaking when she flutters her eyelids shut instead. You can't help but to make a sound of protest—anything, just to get her attention.

"I despise you."

'And I despise you,' the other you whispers in your ears. The devil—you name him, circles around you as you made an attempt to shrug him off. "She deserves it," he speaks. Although you refuse to give in to him, secretly you want to believe his words. They sound almost enticing to you. You don't want to be at fault—you don't want to take the blame. You want to play the victim, because it's easier that way. You want to create a reason for your actions. You didn't notice the way the other you smirks in triumph when you start to list the things she had done to you before. You brought up your previous fights with her—and the anger piles on one another, morphing your anger to a full-blown fury. You open your mouth, ready to lash out, but you hear a shuddering sob. You hear a shuddering sob, and your mind went blank instantly.

"Oh my god, I fucking hate you." You take another step forward and you wince. A sharp pain beneath your foot, and you look down immediately. Your eyes are frowning at the object below and you are confused. You always believe that you are observant, so it's a wonder really—it's a wonder how you didn't notice pieces of glass on the floor. Your eyes follow the trail of the glass, and they widen when it meets the color of red. Specks of blood, taints the white bed covers—approximately three inches away from her. You realize that the blood belongs to her. You shift your eyes to the ground. You are afraid of what you might find. You hear a shuffling movement.

"Fucker," she snarls, "Look at me."

Maybe it was the tone of her voice that worries you. No matter how angry she was before—no matter how harsh her insults were, hatred was always absent. This time, although, the hatred in her voice is painfully blatant—it pains you to hear it, and you know she says it solely for that purpose. So you advert your eyes to her unwillingly. Her eyes—a beautiful shade of emerald; clear and full of emotions as you remember it, are now seemingly dead. Her porcelain cheeks are tear-stained. Her body—black and blue, old scars and new gashes, it was horrifying. It was horrifying that you are the cause of it. You find it horrifying, because her current state secretly excites you. She takes a last drag of her cigarette. She shoots a glare towards you and she flicks the finished cigarette at you. You didn't even try to avoid it. You welcome the act of violence—you embrace the act of hatred. You welcome it, because you know it's nowhere enough, compared to the ones you had inflicted on her.

You are staring at her, and she is staring at you. She takes a cautious step forward, and another—until she is two steps away from you.

"I hate you," she says again, although, a little softer this time.

"You don't." You heard yourself say.

She holds back an arm, and you know what's coming. It'd happened before, and you know this is the least you can do to make her feel better. She swings her arm and punches your shoulder. You watch as she swings her arm again, and you know she is doing this because she wants you to feel the pain you had caused her. She hits you few times. Then, she stops. She stops after a moment. She begins to cry. She throws her arms around you and you reciprocate the gesture almost immediately. She leans her face on your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around her waist.

"I love you." She whispers.

You want to say it back—you want to tell her how much you cherish her. You want to tell her you are sorry. You want to tell her a lot of things, but your lips wouldn't move. Your lips wouldn't move and you assume she knows it, so you nod your head instead. She bites your neck for your lack of response and you can feel fresh tears flow freely down her cheeks. She pushes you away—you caught a glimpse of hurt and rejection in her eyes. She hisses at you and spits at your face. She's walking away; she's walking away from your fingertips. You hear the door slamming. You didn't run after her. You stay at where you are.

She's gone.


End file.
